Strength
by MintTea24
Summary: Skating is Tasha Edwards' lifeblood, the ice a place where she flies, higher than the limits of the sky. But she never expected it to get her where she is now, meeting world-class skaters and becoming famous nearly overnight. Charming, sweet, and adorably British, she is suddenly approached by a certain Punk who makes her unsure for the first time. [Yuri P. X OC]
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 _ **Deep Breaths.**_ _In and out. In and out._ I thought. My coach's mutters and last minute pointers were deaf to my ears. I saw his mouth moving, but could hear no words. I was vaguely aware of a crowd cheering in the background, but it was all muted, almost silent. The only thing I could hear was the heavy beating of my heart, and the anxious puffs of my breath.

 **Thump. Thump. Thump.**

Before I could even comprehend what was happening, I was already skating towards the center of the ice. The vast expanse was scintillating, shining beautifully, and all I could see was everything I had worked toward to this moment. I could hear the _swoosh_ of my rental skates of practice after practice, hours and hours late into the night and early mornings, just me and the ice. I felt the cool, crisp air on my face, kissing my flushed cheeks and swiftly caressing them as I twirl and jump. The satisfying vibration and _clack_ of my blade on the ice as I land an immaculate Salchow, or perform a lovely toe loop. The scrunched up pains in my thighs, core, and arms as I finish my program with an intense step sequence.

My sweat, my tears, my soul. I give it all away, just for that feeling of exuberation as I glide across the ice. I can fly far past the sky when I skate, and I know it. I've worked hard and long, given up my diet, my body, and my spirit, given it to the skating.

Funny how everything since I got here in Barcelona flies by so fast, and I felt so numb, yet right here, right now, I feel like I'm moving in slow motion, and the only thing I feel are a big wave -no colossal, tsunami wave of emotions completely inundating me. I approach the center of the ice.

And I skate.

The music wakes me up like a long lost melody, one that I know so well. I don't even think, just feel the notes and dance to it like I was meant to. I've heard stories of freaking out at the Finals, getting crushed by the pressure of the Grand Prix, or being so focused in your routine that you immediately win gold. But I know that I don't feel anything like that now. The only thing I know is that I am free, and beautiful, and that I'm going to do this free skate like it's my last. Skating is my lifeblood, and this is my realm.

Combination Jump. Triple axle, single loop, triple salchow.

Step sequence. The sway of my nimble arms, the lean and twirling of my petite frame. I am a gorgeous figure, my little skirt swishing back and forth. My feet are light and quick, my blades stealthy and sharp at the same time.

And at the last stretch, I spread my arms wide, like a majestic eagle, soaring through the clouds as the music slows a bit. I feel the immense pain kick into my body, and everywhere suddenly hurts like never before. I clench my teeth, and refuse to give in. I will complete this program.

And then I'm back to it. It's nearly done, nearly over as soon as it began. I know that there is one thing that I had been working on, and never made in practice. My coach highly discouraged me against it, and yet, I feel it's the only thing that will bring me closure, make me feel like I've really pushed my potential. I'm desperate to fit it in, to prove to the world that I can make it, even at my senior debut.

I look towards the dark audience, and spin in a twirl. " _Mom, Dad, hope you smile upon me in heaven. Uncle Benji, thanks for everything. Watch me now everyone: judges, Coach Jelena, and the world. Don't even think about looking away, as I captivate and allure you."_

I sharply turn, push with all my might, and keep my arms high and poised elegantly. I close my eyes as I feel the wind thread through my chocolate locks, kept in a high ponytail, and brush my eyelids tenderly. A resounding clack of my blades on the smooth rink, spraying up a bit of shaved ice. I make the quad Salchow.

And suddenly, my hearing and awareness returns as I complete off the last moments of my song, and I know I have a standing ovation before I even finish. My head is tilted up, violet eyes gazing adoringly at what is the ceiling, but the direction of heaven to me, one arm in front and one in the back. I hold the position, my expression of disbelief and fatigue. I did it!

I turn my head towards the audience, beaming like I was the luckiest person in the world, before doing a dainty bow before skating somewhat sloppily towards the exit. Nearly collapsing into the arms of Coach Jelena, I let her drag me to the kiss and cry, still panting heavily.

"How'd *pant* I do?" I'm still out of breath, and my adrenaline is subsiding, leaving me with a dull soreness everywhere that I know was the result of that insane ending.

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?! The quad- wha- but- how-?!" she sputtered. "You could have missed it! Over rotated! Out stepped! Tripped and hurt yourself!" Her reprimands wiped the smile off my face, and I felt myself get smaller as I tried to shrink into myself. I wrung my hands, and looked down, my hair covering my face. I felt tears blur my vision. I sniffed, willing them to disappear. I would not cry.

I sat up then, straightening my posture, and looking Coach Jelena in the eyes. Deep hues of violet and blue clashed with milky brown; I took a deep breath.

"I knew that I could make that quad. I just had to. And I did. It was a perfect program." Jelena grips my shoulders tighter and pulls me into an embrace.

"And I'm so proud of you," she whispers in my ear, squeezing me tighter, if that's possible.

"The scores for Natasha Edwards of the United Kingdom are… 152.10 free skate, landing her a combined score of 232.31! Crushing the previous ISU record and placing first!" I jump up and put my hands together in front of my heart, and I can't stop beaming. I think I'm glowing, already as ecstatic as if I were on a sugar rush. The ineffable feeling of winning, after all the hard work and sacrifice, is just marvelous and beautiful and baffling, all at once.

Coach Jelena grinned at me.

"Ready for the after-party?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 ** _A/N_**

Hi there! AngelStar24 here. Just an author's note, when text is in this font, they're speaking Russian, and when **_it's bold and in italics_** they're speaking Japanese. I don't actually speak Russian or Japanese, as much as I wish I can, but I would like to keep languages as realistic as possible! · Enjoy!

 **Winning** gold at the Grand Prix is no easy feat, and I'm still exhilarated from it. I can hear the crowd roaring, see the glaring lights, feel the sweat dripping from my hair line. I know that that moment is forever ingrained in my memory, something I will always have with me. A piece of victory. For myself and England.

"Tasha! Open up!" Coach Jelena rapped on the door. I shook my head, blinking, and clearing my thoughts of my brief reverie. Tightening the towel under my arms, I cautiously opened our hotel room door a crack, my violet doe eyes and slim fingertips peeking from the edge. I jumped as she yanked the door open just enough for her body to slide through and frantically slammed it closed behind her. I briefly heard the nosy voices of persistent reporters of all different languages and accents break through the soundproof barrier, only to fade as the door slammed with a bang.

My eyebrows shot up as I turned to Coach Jelena for an explanation. I just finished my nice, well-deserved shower in the quaint bathroom, my brown hair still damp and skinny twigs I called legs with droplets of water dripping down and soaking into the carpet.

"What was that?" I asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious about how much the news people saw, clenching the hem of my luxurious white bath towel.

Coach Jelena looked at me incredulously. "Come on, you know that winning the Grand Prix is a huge deal in ice skating, plus you've broken two records being the youngest to win in your senior debut at 15 and the first Brit to even qualify," she said in her distinctly French accent.

I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and my hair stands on end. I look down, flustered, and murmur small thanks. I still can't believe it. The Grand Prix had been my dream ever since I started skating. It's beautiful looking back on those days and standing here now, knowing that my skating is the best in the world, if only for a year.

I put on a simple pair of blue skinny jeans, a black form-fitting athletic tee, and shrug on a long cerulean trench coat. Slipping into my worn navy converse, I check the hallway before walking out. Me and Coach Jelena already did some sightseeing earlier, but that's not what I'm going out for. I want to see the men's events, which are today.

Okay, so Coach Jelena was kinda jumping the gun when she asked if I was ready for the after-party. I competed two days ago, and the celebratory banquet was tonight. Men's singles free skate was today, and I want to watch them. Usually, men have more stamina than the women, which isn't to say that they're better, or they work harder, but they have more potential in the jumps. Women are more lithe and graceful, and I am especially known for my intense complicated step sequences and flexibility, which allows complicated combination spins.

I sigh, feeling a rush of emotions and stress lift off my shoulders like from a tightly corked bottle, begging to burst. Taking a moment, I tilt my head up and let the early rays of the morning sun caress my cheeks. Barcelona is a bustling and vivacious city, full of life and vitality. My eyelids flutter shut over my violet irises and I just listen to the city sounds, momentarily blocking the doorway. My chest feels tendrils warm afterglow slithering through my core and limbs, skimming over my pale skin. The lasting warmth and comfort after a competition. I can't even describe how wonderful it feels to know that you gave it your all, and for just one time, it was enough. After all the believing, wishing, hoping, sacrificing, working, and praying, I get the gold.

"Oi! You're blocking the way!" I snap back to reality with the sharp tongue of an accented language, the only word I understand being "Oi." It generally is used with extreme annoyance.

"Sorry, I didn't realize," I reply with my own British accent, turning to face the person with a flick of my bangs and an apologetic upward curve of my lips. Purple meets a swirling mix of blue-green as I face them, and my world stops.

 _Wow._

His eyes are critically fixated on me, searching over in a somewhat condescending way, but I couldn't care less, just as long as he kept looking. He's probably considered short as far as skaters go, but is taller than me by a few centimeters or so, slight height difference helping him look down on me. His platinum blonde hair is done up, with two braids circling his head like a crown and meeting at the back in a ponytail. I could've mistaken him for a girl, if not for some obvious facial features and broader shoulders. His figure is lean and of a skater, and I know he's here for the Grand Prix. His athletic jacket spells the word "Russia," and there I realize he spoke to me in Russian. In that moment, I also realize that one, I don't speak Russian, two, I've probably been standing mute for quite awhile, and three, I'm _still_ blocking the doorway.

"Tch. Baka, **_Are you deaf or mute? Decide, and move out of the way!"_** I then scramble out of the doorway, still dazed by this somewhat rude yet attractive stranger.

"Gomenasai!" I finally speak up, noticing he oddly switched to Japanese –a language I can speak– but called me an idiot, deaf, and/or mute, all at once.

 ** _"So you can talk? In Japanese but not in Russian? Jeez the world is stupid."_** He's obviously annoyed, but I neglect to point out that he's speaking Japanese now.

 ** _"What's your name? Are you competing in the Grand Prix?"_** I ask timidly. I want to get some background before I go to watch, because truthfully I've been too caught up in practicing and stressing that I really haven't been keeping up with the results and finals of my competition, much less the men's scores.

 ** _"What's_** your **_name? You don't really look like a skater so my name doesn't matter to you, and neither should the Grand Prix."_** Whoa. Okay, take a step back here.

 ** _"Excuse me? Yes, I'm a skater. And the Grand Prix means nearly the world to me, thanks much. Don't be so judgmental. Now I've got to be going, I'm not interested in this conversation._** Cheers." I spun quickly on my heel, my hair swishing behind me and with my movements. Forget him, he's a douche. I'm not going to talk to people like him that don't mind insulting everyone they meet. I swear I hear him scoffing behind my back, but I don't give a damn.

When I enter the stadium, I walk over to the competitors' bleachers, because I've competed already and I'm allowed special seating to watch. Most of the women from the competition are probably sleeping in right now or sightseeing, but I've always thought it's important to wake up early. Actually, that's probably the jetlag speaking, but it doesn't matter.

I watch all the skaters; they dance aesthetically and indescribably upon the ice, their glistening stage. I have the breath stolen from my lungs again and again as I just admire them. The short programs are full of unique compositions and music, and they all have fantastic jumps and expressive step programs. I sigh in awe. I'm always humbled so much when I watch others skate. I just can't bring myself to imagine that that's what I look like when I do what I love, simply because they make it look so much better and effortless. Of course, real skaters all know that you break yourself again and again, sacrifice everything and then even more, to get here. It must be so blissful to be an unaware fan, sitting in the bleachers and being entertained by us, only seeing the fruits of our labor in all their glory.

 _There._

I inhale sharply and tense up when I see him. Immediately feelings of resentment bubble up inside of me as I remember his sharp words, but I shove them down. I just faintly hear the announcer introduce him, and the only sounds I comprehend are brief murmurs, until one name resounds in my ears, prominent from the rest.

 _Yuri Plisetsky._


	3. Chapter 3

**_The_** only thing that makes sense to me besides skating and physics is music.

I watch him shed his jacket, like a butterfly sheds its chrysalis, and stand in awe. His free skate costume is black and form-fitting, accentuating his lean figure, with fiery red flames circling his body. I don't comprehend much, until the music starts. I immediately recognize the orchestra, being well-versed in musical history, from classical to modern pop, and an avid musician. Allegro Appassionato, an extremely difficult piano piece with an insanely fast rhythm. Jesus, he was mad to be skating to a piece like that. Mad… and bloody brilliant.

His blonde ponytail whips around as he flows with the music effortlessly, and I lean over the ledge, enthralled. I was stuck, trapped. I couldn't move. My eyes are glued to him, I can't tear them away, no matter what I do. I was seeing an angel in its realm.

As he got ready for the first jump, I gasp unintentionally as he skillfully lands a perfect quad. I know that he's good just from the way he skates in the first few seconds, but I didn't fathom how beautiful it would be. It's so satisfying to see a flawless and difficult jump, and even more if you do it yourself. I squint and try to imagine what he's thinking. I thought of the people who supported me all the way here, and how grateful I was to them. Mom and Dad, although they can't be here with me now. Uncle Benji, an energetic and loving spirit, who funds my skating and ballet lessons, always supporting whatever I want to do, whether it be ice skating or music DJ-ing.

Yuri dances, and I just can't capture what work got put into it. I heard that his ballet teacher, the former prima ballerina Lilia Baranovskaya had choreographed it. That makes sense. It has the grace and touch of a prima, undoubtedly working for Yuri's lithe frame. He moves like fire; flames flapping and twirling and dancing fluidly upon the ice.

I don't know what to make of it. It's beautiful. It's stunning. It makes me feel like a complete idiot for even standing in his presence and not commenting on his form and skilled jumps. I respect grace and power, okay? Damn, I can't even describe the jumps. They're magnificent, immaculate, everything from his raised arms to the landing technique.

He slips on the third jump, but gets up determinedly. I see his harsh expression and I know he's thinking of winning. He executes the rest of the program with grace, not missing a single jump, raising his arms at every leap off the ice. Yes, he is insanely brilliant.

Slowing his motions and stopping in a dramatic stance, he ends the intense program, falling on his knees. The crowd cheers wildly, and I don't react or move. _Wow._ I'm frozen and speechless. I didn't even know that skating could be so captivating. Yuri exits the rink, walking to the kiss and cry with his coach and choreographer, and sits on the bench, eyes glued to the scoreboard. Then it happens.

His eyes momentarily flick to the competitors' bleachers, and for a fleeting moment, our gazes meet. I inhale sharply and feel my face heating up as I turn away, embarrassed. Why am I embarrassed? This is stupid. I swear I saw the damn Russian smirk before I broke away. I'm tempted to just leave but I want to stay to see his score.

"The scores for Yuri Plisetsky are… 200.97! Bringing it to a combined score of 319.53, placing him in first!"

There was applause and cheering everywhere, I could hardly hear anything else. Yuri is the youngest to win gold at the Grand Prix. Then I realize something. I am too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 **After** the performance, I left and made my way back to the hotel room. I'm inspired by his movement, his routine. I wish I looked like that when I skate. I also desperately want to see him again, and at the same time, want nothing more to avoid him at all costs. What do you say to someone who is likely still disgusted at you and like everyone else in the world only sees a nobody when they look your way? Exactly. I can't come up with any words that don't sound terrible. Perhaps I'll be lucky, and our paths won't cross again until we're older and I can rival him.

In the hotel room, Coach Jelena and I are getting ready for the celebratory banquet of all the skaters. It's in a different hotel, but within walking distance of ours. My dress stays true to my character: it's just a plain blue party dress that ends at my knees, with a gold sash wrapped tightly around my thin waist. I have a simple gold chain on my neck, and brown flats. I'm really not one for fancy parties.

Originally, I wanted to opt out. I didn't really want to approach the other skaters after the grand prix. I was actually afraid of going because I was sure I was going to lose. How are they going to act towards me now that I've actually won?! My goal is to be low key for the night and get home was soon as possible so I could start ramping up for Worlds and the Four Continents and bigger competitions. But no, Coach Jelena insisted I come. "It's important to keep up your image now that you're starting to get noticed," was what she said.

I grip the leathery door handle and step out of the taxi, cautiously placing my little foot on the pavement. I am overwhelmed by reporters and cameras flashing at me, as I recoil from the blinding lights and nearly scramble back into the car if Coach Jelena didn't shove me out. She handles the press nicely, coming out like a movie star in black heels after me as I nearly tripped over my own feet, and I'm wearing flats. She's French, after all. Coach used to be a famous ballet dancer in Russia and she's used to the paparazzi, but I'm really not the spotlight type.

I walk as quickly as possible past the press, trying not to look awkward next to Coach Jelena who's strutting in her get up. I want to be inconspicuous, but that's not happening.

I look down at my feet, avoiding the crowds. Funny how when I'm on ice the people disappear and I could be dancing in front of one person or thousands in the bleachers and on national television and it wouldn't matter, but when I'm out of my armor of skates I feel vulnerable and exposed, overwhelmed by the clamoring reporters and suffocating people. Like a little child tossed onto the rink for the first time. That's how I feel.

"Are you alright, _la petite amie_? You're looking a little pale." Coach Jelena's pretty French accent is laced with concern.

"Huh? Yeah, I'm fine." I lie, breaking eye contact so she wouldn't see my eyes. She has a way of knowing everything.

"If you say so. Come, meet the competition!" She motions for me to stand up straighter and smile, dragging me closer to the party. "You're the most popular girl here right now, gold medalist of the Grand Prix Final! All the boys want to talk to you!" she winks, and then recognizes someone else familiar. "Chris!" she yells, then abandons me at the doorway, leaving me standing and nervous.

It's about half an hour into the party, and I shuffled into a corner and stood rigid, refusing to move to socialize with anyone. Again, I'm hoping to get through the party without really talking to anyone. But it's actually hard. I see so many famous skaters, Christophe Giacometti, Otabek Altin, and god, _Viktor Nikiforov._ Twice. I spotted him across the room, Katsuki Yuri not far behind him. Viktor took a break from ice skating to coach Yuri, and I could clearly see his improvement from last year. Many doubted that Viktor would be a good coach, but Yuri went through a transformation. Viktor really brings out a hidden side from him.

I scan the room for more acclaimed skaters and coaches. Yeah, this is really awkward. I didn't go to the banquet last year when I was still in the junior division: I made it to the finals, and finished in last, ending my season terribly with a ton of slip ups and deductions. Nerves really do that to you. But it was so embarrassing! I absolutely refused to attend the banquet, but I heard that it was really wild. Something to do with people getting crazy drunk and stripping. Yeah, on second thought, maybe it was good that I didn't go to that banquet.

Out of nowhere, Coach Jelena appears and grabs my arm. I recoil at first, not sure, then relax when I only see it's her.

"Come on, Tasha! They're taking a picture of all the podium winners!" She took my arm again, blonde hair swishing in waves behind her. I let her expertly drag me through the crowd, full of skaters in men's, women's, pairs, junior and senior divisions, from all over the world. Some people give us weird looks as we pass by, and I blush, avoiding their judging gazes.

The world is truly a big place, and skaters can come from all over, but when it boils down to the Grand Prix Final, Four Continents, and bigger international competitions, everyone knows the main countries like Russia, Japan, Canada, China, Switzerland, and a few others. But everyone knows it's never been England. Ever. I think some skaters doubt I should really be here. I'm the only British skater that qualifies for this competition and had been a big disappointment until two days ago. When I won the Prix.

"I got her! She's here. Tasha, stand here next to Mei-Hua and Alina." I smiled brightly when I saw the familiar faces. Mei-Hua Zhang is my old rink mate from when I trained in China because Coach Jelena lived there. Her round almond eyes compliment her soft smile and silky ink-black hair that's cut short at her shoulders. I know Alina from last year: she represents Kazakhstan and has similar hair color to Mei-Hua, but it's slightly wavy and is kept long. They're both older than me; I'm like the little sister of the trio. Mei-Hua wears a maroon dress that ends at her knees, slits going up the sides. Alina has a longer green dress and heels, black hair piled high on her head.

"Hi guys! I didn't even see you come in. I was left standing alone for 30 minutes! And I didn't even get to say congrats!" I gush, relieved that I was friendly with some people here. "I swear there are so many famous skaters I'm going to suffocate in their godliness." I whispered to them as they laughed at me.

"Oh, little Tasha is suffering from admiration anxiety!" Alina teases, wrapping her tanned arm around me. Mei-Hua laughs harder as I mutter jokingly under my breath "damn right."

"Jesus, stop embarrassing us girls, just look towards the camera and smile." Mei-Hua deadpans in her subtle Chinese accent, before we all burst into giggles. I'm having a lot of fun, just being with my friends. It reminds me that I'm not only excited to travel around to international competitions for the medals, but because I want to see my friends again.

I look towards the camera and give a lovely smile, just reflecting on the outside what I feel on the inside. That's what I want my skating to be like too. I always skate to something that connects with me, that's beautiful and true and special. I want to be able to inspire others with my skating, remind them to stop and stare every once in awhile from their busy lives and just watch me dance a tribute to our beautiful world. The camera flashes, and captures our happy faces, satin dresses and rosy cheeks.

In the flash, I spot a familiar face.

Blinking from the bright light, I look over the photographer's shoulder only to see the blue-green irises of someone I had only met this morning. I inhale sharply and immediately turn away, blushing. _Again_. God this boy was annoying. He looks pretty surprised to see me too, and I pray that he won't come over here.

"Ooh, who's that, Tasha?" Mei-Hua whispers in my ear. I jump, still wishing Yuri won't see me and my face.

"Who's who?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

"No I don't!"

Mei-Hua sighs, and lazily points at Yuri, whose back is –thankfully– turned to us.

" _Him._ He was looking at you."

"I don't know who you're talking about." I deny at all costs. No way was I talking to him again.

"That's okay, I know who he is. He's Yuri Plisetsky, won gold in men's." Alina butted in, "He's friends with Otabek. And he's your age too." She winked suggestively.

I replied the only way I knew how to.

"That's weird."

"I think I'll call him over." Mei-Hua said.

"No!"

"I'm definitely calling him over."

"Mei Mei! Alina, help me!"

Alina turned and waved to Otabek, who was next to Yuri. She mouthed something to him too, and it took all my willpower not to run away when he tapped Yuri on the shoulder and motioned towards us. I sent Alina a meaningful look and she just shrugged.

 _Shit._

They were walking over here. Damn you, Alina.

" ** _Neh, Otabek, who's your friend here?"_** Alina says in Japanese. She's lying, she totally knows who he is. Otabek towers over me and I've only seen him a few times in person. He and Yuri are dressed in formal attire from what I'd seen earlier. I lower my eyes and concentrate on their feet and fancy shoes, subliminally blushing like I'm thirteen again.

" ** _Hah? I'm Yuri Plisetsky, I won Gold at the final today during my senior debut! How do you not know who I am?"_** He exclaims, offended, and I can only internally sigh. I stay silent and wish for the umpteenth time tonight that I am either invisible, non-existent, or mute.

" ** _Oh really? Well what a coincidence, I also have a friend who won Gold at the Grand Prix Final!"_** Come on Mei Mei, you too?

 ** _"I'm sure you haven't met her before, but Tasha here's also in her senior debut."_**

 ** _"Don't over exaggerate, I'm not that talented."_** I automatically interrupt, the words just spilling out of my mouth like clockwork. I just want to do what I love, break away from the norm of my British family, just like my parents did. My mom's side is purebred Brits, tracing lineage back to whenever, and as of now, major rugby stars. Many of my cousins are big in that sport. Dad is a different story. He's from Japan, born and raised in Tokyo, which is why I'm so into anime and know Japanese.

My split family trees were of different worlds, and within those worlds, my parents were something else all together. They broke free of their strings that tied them down, spread their wings and did what they felt in their hearts was right. Mom was a singer growing up, a beautiful talent for the choreography and expression in stardom. Dad was pretty normal as far as normal goes in my book, but all my few precious memories of him consist of poly-chromatic covers of Japanese manga's and rough anime sketches tossed about upon a glass coffee table. They were both artists that wanted to share the light in their lives with the slowly darkening world.

I look up and face him, Yuri, head on just as my parents would have wanted me to, and I let the right curve of my lips ever-so-slightly perk up. His face is set in a permanent frown, radiant blue-green eyes capturing mine, his expression flickering with recognition from when we met earlier today, and tinged with surprise. The frown disappears for a moment as his gaze clashes with mine for the third time today, and I think that he looks more handsome without his condescending look. In that moment I realize that I want to keep seeing his face without his _disgust_ at others. I want to be able to skate a program that not only makes him lose his glower, but makes him smile. I want to show him the light, the burning flame I see in his eyes. With confidence, which I so often lack just as a timid child does something for the first time, I admit to something that I probably have never told myself or anyone else before.

 ** _"But if I won the Final with no talent, I must be worth something, eh?"_** I grin warmly and wink, taking him completely by surprise, as if he wasn't shocked to see me here at first. What can I say, I'm a weird culmination of Brit and Japanese rolled into my 160 cm tall frame. The charm and politeness is included.

 ** _"Oi! Gold-medalists and senior debut stars Yuri Plisetsky and Tasha Edwards meet! Look over here!"_** We both abruptly swivel our heads to the origin of the exclamation, and are met with the gentle flash of a photographer and the click of a professional camera. I blink from the sudden burst of light and see black dots splatter my vision (again). Rapidly blinking until I could see the rest of the banquet hall again, I'm met with yet another photographer who's extremely tech savvy and constantly on Instagram.

 ** _"Definitely making history! I'm so posting this!"_** And enter Phichit Chulanont, coming out of nowhere. He pops up in between me and Yuri, who is standing surprisingly close to me (how did that happen?!) and takes a fleeing selfie, his smiling face and dazzling grin contrasting majorly with Yuri's severely serious expression and my severely confused one. What. Is. Happening. To. My. Life.

Little do I know that that party, that awkward conversation, and that photograph becomes the beginning of my new life. One where most things–my coach, my skating, my music–remains the same, but Yuri Plisetsky becomes my drive. My passion. My everything.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 **Yuri Plisetsky's POV**

To me, Tasha Edwards is an enigma. A puzzle. Something that seems impossible, but just exists anyway, declaring against whatever said it couldn't be real. She's very nearly unreal. Unrealistically... What's the word? Maybe loving. Or fantastical. Witty and kind. And perhaps ever so slightly miraculous. And honestly, I'm thinking these things and I'd only met the girl today.

When I met her, she was basking in the first rays of light emerging from the far horizon, looking like a silly ordinary girl who can't even bother to understand the rules, sacrifices, work, and grit poured into skating. That's the most revolting thing about people who live their mundane idiotic lives, when they reject you for failing, when they become hollowly disappointed in you after all the unseen sacrificing you've done. It's no use, the world is like she is so far away from that, so incredibly separate from those people, and I didn't even know it.

As I talk to her at this stupid celebratory banquet that happens every year, and that I most certainly wanted to ditch after _last year_ , I realize that we are alike, but in so many ways different. It's actually funny, and confusing, to me. She's humble and sweet, but I have a feeling that she doesn't believe in herself as much as she should. She makes friends easy, her British charm occasionally filters through her speech. But the most frustrating this is that she is all these things, _and_ she won the grand prix.

It's not like there's a stereotype for the gold medalist, but they're always determined, arrogant, ambitious, and talented. Skaters who win gold are egotistical; we know we're the greatest in the world, which is why we work so hard to prove who the best of the best is. Shy, timid, unassertive skaters who don't come out of their protective shell and make sacrifices and take risks don't win anything. There's no prize for being lazy. Katsudon got a damn miracle when Viktor came and turned his life around, and he's no longer the crying-in-the-bathroom-stall loser from last year.

 ** _"Yuri? Are you thinking of anything for next year?"_** She asks me, scrutinizing my face with her violet eyes. Now that we've formally "met," I'll take pity on her and let her pick my brain. It's funny how I can tell a lot about her just like reading a book, only by her conversation. What's funnier is that I don't think I ever pay attention about so many little things of one person, except for _jijou,_ and that's only because he's the one person in the world that I love the most. There's just something so…alluring about Tasha.

 ** _"Tch, I always have to be thinking about skating. It's my life."_** I tell her the simple truth, thinking about all the things I've done to make skating my only focus. Retaking ballet, moving to Moscow, training with Yakov day and night and living with Lilia. A lone wooden bar adjacent to tall mirrors, bits of shaved ice flying up from glittering blades, and my body reeking of sweat, grit, and pain at the end of each night, only to restart the next morning. It fleetingly flashes before my eyes, before her melodic laugh brings me back.

 ** _"I'm just wondering if there's anything different for next season. I'm always looking for inspiration. It's what gives me the feeling of beauty."_** She sighs softly, turning her head to look around the room, probably for her friends earlier. We retreated to a corner of the hall after the photo ambush, but refrained multiple times from wine flukes proffered to us by the stately waiters. I also wanted to avoid the other skaters at all costs; I swear if anyone gets drunk again I'm saving myself from that embarrassment.

 ** _"Why do you skate, Yuri?"_**

 ** _"What?"_**

 ** _"Why do you skate?"_**

 ** _"Why do you need to know?"_**

She bites her lip and looks up slightly disapprovingly, but continues despite my remark.

 ** _"Anyone who skates that beautifully must have a hell of a reason to. It's… inhuman almost."_** She winces.

 ** _"Sorry, that made it sound like it was a bad thing. And it's not! It's a great thing. It's absolutely phenomenal. But like anyone else, you've obviously trained hard for it."_**

 ** _"Thrown my soul away again and again until the new one is the right one."_** I say automatically, the words that guided me through the intense regimen I went through to perfect my skating for this final, down to every crinkle and bump.

 ** _Mmm…"_** She nods in agreement. She knows exactly what I'm talking about. **_"So what drives you? Hmm? Fame? Your Country? Other people's expectations?"_**

I think for awhile. This is probably the most sophisticated conversation I've ever had with another skater, without me telling them to piss off or simply becoming disinterested in the topic. Most of the time it's because I'm becoming sick of their big egos (*cough* JJ Viktor), or I'm thinking of how to kick their ass. Right now, I'm thinking neither.

 ** _"Ever since I was young and started skating, all I wanted was to make Jijou smile. Make him be proud of me. Make him be able to watch me compete from any television screen anywhere on the planet and see me win gold. I'm only skating for one person."_** I declared.

 ** _"Wow. Are you sure?"_** She replies in a slightly skeptical tone.

 ** _"Why else would I work my ass off?"_** I grumble. If she didn't believe me it was her fault. I do skate for Jijou!

She narrows her eyes and seems to carefully formulate what she is going to say next, likely sensing my defensiveness on the topic. Good choice. Sometimes, I wish Viktor was like that. He just seems to ramble on and on regardless of how I might lash out and react to the criticism. He rubs salt in my hidden wounds over and over again. I don't understand what _Katsudon_ sees in him anyway. He's an dramatic romantic that'sthat can understand and express every happy emotion. I've never seen him sad or jealous or frustrated or even angry. He's emotionless by being so full of emotions. A happy-go-lucky guy, whose life never seems full of strife or work. Sometimes I wish he would shut the hell up and show at least some suffering. He makes skating look easy. He makes winning seem like it's without sacrifice.

 ** _"Because you need to prove yourself. Maybe it's to your grandfather. Maybe it's to your country. Perhaps it's to you. I don't know. But I find that simple yearning isn't quite enough."_** Her violet eyes peered deep into mine, as if she was trying to see what I was really thinking. I can't take her scrutinizing gaze any longer. Her radiant irises are telescopes of immense power, in this moment I don't think there is anything, from any distance no matter how far, which they cannot see. And I hate to admit that I think she's right. I'm really not an introspective person, only concentrated on having crystal-clear focus on my skating and nothing else. I don't really like to "reflect on my personal thoughts," because that's only going to distract me and lead me away from winning.

 ** _"Gomen! I think I'm being too pushy. It's okay if you don't want to say. After all, I'm just a newbie from the UK, which isn't known for figure-skating after all."_** Suddenly she back tracks, blushing and averting her gaze. I frown. She implied two things in that sentence. One, that she was a "newbie," which she obviously isn't, and two, that the United Kingdom isn't really the best place to come from in skating. Which, is partly true since the UK is practically invisible and/or non-existent in the skating world.

 ** _"What's wrong?"_** She catches my grimace and her blush disappears, morphing into a concerned expression.

 ** _"Newbie's don't win grand prix's."_** I mutter. And the blush comes back. At full force.

I grin unconsciously at her as she murmurs a low thanks and smiles, flustered, at the floor, pushing her hair behind her ear.

The rest of the night was a blur. I was enjoying myself, surprisingly, and stayed by Tasha's side the whole time. She's so full of light and laughter, easily getting along with all the other skaters we met. I normally hated socializing too, even with my fans, the stupid weirdos, but she guided me through all of it. I know for a fact that Viktor is popular not only because he actually wins with his self-choreographed programs, but that he is encouraging with his younger skating fans. She reminded me a little of him. But way less arrogant.

I nonchalantly shove my hands into the pockets of my navy blue blazer, same one I wore as last year. Funny how I don't really go sightseeing or shopping every time I travel for international competitions, unlike many other particularity social skaters like Viktor. Ugh! I keep thinking of Viktor, and it's getting to me. I'm so used to always thinking about observing what he does and using it to beat him one day, looking up to him like so many young athletes.

 _ **"So, Yuri? I had a really nice time tonight, you know, for my first Grand Prix banquet. Thanks for sticking with me. I guess I'll see you at Worlds?"** _ Tasha smiles once again.

 _ **"Yeah, I guess so. Work hard, and you might make it to finals again."** _ I didn't know what else to say, but it seems to have the desired effect.

She nods enthusiastically, clasping her hands. Turning towards her coach, who looks ever-so-slightly drunk, she strolls back, a skip in her step, with her blue skirts swishing around her legs and chocolate hair bouncing. I memorize the moment, as she shyly turns back and waves, her pink, tender lips curving into a smile, a tinge of rose blush still on her cheeks, her contrasting, magnificent violet eyes.

And I still can't explain the ineffable, warm feeling spreading through my chest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 **Four Weeks Later**

 **I** only hear the loud, pithy, satisfying clap of my blades slapping on the sparkling ice. Gliding around a semicircle from my impeccable landing, I let a ghost of a smile play upon my lips. I'd been trying harder to get that axle down, especially with the difficult entry I so carelessly incorporated. But of course, like every program I've skated this season, it's been choreographed by me and only me; no professional dancer working out the elegant moves, no composer making my music, not even Coach Jelena was picking my piece or organizing my routine. I made a resolution for my transition from a junior to a senior competitive skater: I choose my own music, I make my own programs.

I listlessly skate to the side of the rink next to my blue bag, subconsciously analysing my performance today. I guess I could really do some more ballet practice to help with that axle, it would sharpen my technique, which will probably prove valuable in the future when I work with more expressive and complex step sequences. Sipping from my water bottle, I wait for my breathing to slow as I rest my tired muscles. Standing there for about two minutes, I can start to feel the cool edge of the air cut into my uncovered face and hands, and the little scratches on my palms start to sting from when I scraped myself after falling multiple times today.

 ** _Ding. Ding._**

My phone vibrates and pings two melodic notes deep within my bag. Reaching in -my hand shuffling through various clothing, lotions, and a book- I pull it from the recesses and glance at the lowly lit screen. The time reads 7:40 PM, and my lock screen is a cute selfie of me and Mei Hua back in China. But I'm only drawn to the Instagram notification.

 _Yuri._

I feel my heart rate speeding up and my face flushing again, even though I've been resting for at least three minutes and me and Yuri have only formally met for a few hours. I turn my head, furtively peeking to make sure no one else was around to see my embarrassing reaction. I'd been so caught up in my routine that I barely noticed that the amount of skaters trickled off until everyone had left. Today was Coach Jelena's day off, and I was merely doing extra practice this Sunday (even though it was her day off, she strongly implied that it wasn't mine).

Clicking on the notification and getting past my password, I saw a rather cute post. Grinning even bigger when I took a closer look, I giggled softly to myself. When you're on Yuri's Instagram, you often see badass pictures of his skating, his skates, or a selfie from all the cool places he goes when he competes internationally. But this one was completely new.

The loving, completely _kawaii_ and grinning expression is plastered upon Yuri's black and white cat. To add to the innocence, it's on its back and looking up adorably. I can see the plain sheets the content animal is curled up in, and various clothes in a pile in the room. It must be Yuri's bedroom.

After liking the photo and stuffing my phone back into my bag, I swiftly glide to the edge of the rink and step out, plopping down on a nearby bench and unlacing my worn no-longer-snow-white skates. My numb fingertips trace the little scratches imbedded into the dull icy blades, scraping off the little bits of frost that accumulated before snapping on the sky blue guards. Standing up with a sense of finality, I have the wisps of a smile play on my lips as I exit the rink, heaving my practice bag over my shoulder, embracing the chill of the spring London air as I open the door.

"Hey, I'm home!" I call, pocketing my keys and finally relishing in the warm atmosphere and cozy colors of the house. The subtle decorations were mostly me trying to make the house more lively, from a crocheted stuffed penguin peeking from behind the landline to polychromatic chains of paper cranes hanging from the miniscule chandelier, if you could call it that.

"Oi! Tasha!" My tall uncle the kitchen doorway, with a turtleneck sweater, fuzzy grey slippers and a off-white mug of hot cocoa. His ruddy face is relaxed and is framed by wisps of his greying hair, and I felt comforted just seeing him. Yeah, he's that kind of uncle.

"Hi Uncle Beny! Where're the twins?" I turned around and scanned the room for them, my skates swinging and bumping against by legs, softened slightly by my leggings. Peering into the hall of our cramped flat, Uncle Beny spoke.

"I think Eddie and Jamie are upstairs, probably attempting to do homework. You know the boys, not really the academic type." I nodded along with his heavy cockney accent, trudging up the narrow stairs. Quietly knocking on the wall, I gave a warm smile and greeted my two burly cousins.

"Hi Eddie, Hi Jamie, what's up?" The twins were sitting on the floor of our living room, sheets sprawled all over and books with pages open scattered around. In the midst of the paper-cut hurricane, Eddie and James lay haphazardly, laptops adjacent with blank documents.

"Hey Tasha, why is physics so hard?!" I tilt my head, leaning against the frame, chuckling. My cousins are muscular things, athletes year-round. Sometimes I skate with them during the winter, when hockey season comes around. I just do skating drills and stuff when they commit to extra practice, but it's really good for my stamina, which, to be frank, is about as good as nothing. They like rugby and cricket too, but that requires way more strength than I have.

"You guys will get it eventually, just read the textbook." I laugh, turning to leave.

"Oi, pass me the ball!" Eddie yells after me, putting up his hands to catch it. I swoop down and snatch the lone rugby ball abandoned by my feet, and deftly pitch it in his general direction. He catches it one-handed, skillfully cradling the ball and whooping.

I hear them laughing and talking again when I leave for my room. Crossing the hall, I walk into my room and set my skates on their special shelf in my dresser, dropping my bag carelessly on the wood floor and collapsing eagle-spread onto my navy blue comforter. I clench the sheets with my fists, rolling over and breathing in the scent of detergent and dry wood. Blinking lazily, eyes half lidded, I realize how exhausted I am. Today, I really went all out.

My off-white walls, piles of colorful books and manga (dad's influence that I could never shake), and cluttered corkboard warm my heart. The board is a mess of Polaroid pictures and scripted song lyrics, bits of ribbon and buttons that I liked the colors of, dozens of paper schedules pinned up and pop culture splattered over it. Then there were posters and little clippings of my favorite skaters or just anything I thought was beautiful everywhere on my walls. What can I say, I like it, I pin it up. I think there's a picture of Viktor Nikiforov from last grand prix somewhere next to my desk too.

I turn and spot my newest pin-up. My breath hitches as I smile and blush, burying my face deeper into my covers. I know, it's lame. His blonde hair is down and seems to be floating around his face like a halo, his arms outstretched at the finishing of a jump with an immaculate landing. The picture was from a year or two ago, I think, but I found it somewhere and couldn't resist. It captures his movement and beauty, his grace and grit, everything together. His green eyes look somewhere towards the angle of the photographer, but if you look closer you can see that they're not quite there. I admire his lithe limbs, giving him the flexibility that many male skaters can't achieve. By the angle of his arms, I think the jump was executed with his arms raised high. Show-off.

I sigh, pondering my thoughts. The way he moves is just so enticing, and I bet no one can look away. I want to skate like that. Someday. Rolling off my bed with my aching limbs, I lumber from my bedroom to the similarly minuscule washroom to shower. It's getting late and my body and mind is craving a deep, deep sleep right now…

 ** _Ding. Ding._**

My head perks up at the sound. Picking up my bag, I rummage until my petite fingers manage to close around my phone. What now? I see a text notification from Coach Jelena.

 _CALL ME IMMEDIATELY!_

My stomach drops and I grimace. What could possibly be wrong? I zone out for a moment and think of all the terrible scenarios. "I'm at the hospital and am severely injured."? "I'm sorry but you're so terrible at skating that I can't be your coach anymore."?

Fingers shaking, I dial her number as swiftly as possible. I hold up the phone and bite my lip impatiently at the seemingly-endless ringtone. **Beep. Beep. Beep.**

She answers. I hold my breath.

"Ello'? Tasha?"

"Y-Yeah? It's me."

"Oh good, I thought you might not have gotten the text."

"What's wrong?"

"Eh?"

"You asked me to call you immediately. What's wrong? Are you okay?" I tap my foot frustratedly.

"Oh yeah, that! So I was just calling my old friend from my prima days, Lilia." Lilia? As in Lilia Baranovskaya, Yuri's choreographer?!

"What?!"

"-and she's a bit out of her prima days like me-" Coach Jelena ignores my exclamation and babbles on.

"So I thought that you should probably be working on your ballet more. Touch up technique and grace, which you're really lacking with all this endurance training…" I grudgingly agreed in my head, as that was exactly what I was thinking when I finished practicing today.

"And?"

"Well, I suggested that we go to Russia to do a technique a _nd_ endurance intensive training regimen with her!"

I drop the phone.


	7. Chapter 7

**How** do I get dragged into things like this? Well, I suppose I'm just lucky like that. I also suppose that I should be extremely grateful. Sort of.

Following my shocked state of silence in which Coach Jelena's voice spoke worriedly from the carelessly dropped phone, came a onslaught of but's, how's, and no way's. I had no idea how Coach Jelena came up with such a rash preposition or why she thought I wasn't currently good on technique and stamina (hey…), but surely I couldn't just drop everything and go. Plus, where would I get the money? I'm feel like I'm pressuring Uncle Beny with my trip to Barcelona, plus my ballet classes, _plus_ my skating and tuition fees. But of course, like whenever I bring up money, he just reminds me that he's my guardian, and I'm like his own child.

I sigh, peering out the plane window, watching the pale moonlit clouds wisp by, ghosting over the wings. Coach Jelena really convinces me. All she had to do was say that it was for my skating and was a chance for me to greatly improve. And she also emphasized that I would be training with _the_ Lilia Baranovskaya, a world-renowned prima ballerina, and that I would have the best ice skating resources in Russia. It was a once in a life time chance. It was a once in a century chance. In retaliation, I said "Bloody hell, there are going to be the best _bloody brilliant_ skaters in the world, I can't train there!"

Guess what she replied? "And you're training to be the _bloody best_ too! So pack up, close your mouth, and stop spewing obscenities, you sound like the damn hockey players." "I live with two of them!"

Nope. Nothing could stop Coach Jelena after she finished nagging me. One stutter from me that I admit it would be a good idea, and suddenly Uncle Beny is willing to send me there.

Glancing down at my neglected book, I put a crinkled receipt from my breakfast at a little café between the pages, shutting it with a sense of finality. Coach Jelena is asleep on my right, dozing off with her silky eyeshades slightly askew. The drone of the airline is dizzying, a monotone hum that seems to be squeezing the air out of my lungs. Swallowing thickly, I try to distract myself from the numbness of my feet and thighs, and the crimping ache of my lower back.

It happens when I don't stretch for awhile, being a very active athlete. I bite my lip, and will it to all go away. I shut my eyes tightly, imagining the clap of my skates on the ice, the cool caress of the frozen air, the smell of sweat and beauty and determination. I imagine the strong beats of music that pound in my heart, matching with my body, overtaking it and moving it out of my own control.

My phone vibrates. I sigh, exasperated, and clench my fists. Struggling to reach it, I finally wrench the device from my jean pocket in the cramped seat, fingertips brushing the scratchy airline seat before clenching it. Looking at the notification, I notice it's Yuri again. This time a picture of the snow outside. And all of a sudden, I remember that I'm going to skate in Russia. In St. Petersburg. Yuri's in St. Petersburg.

No way. I blink. I'll be able to skate with Yuri. Train with him? Maybe. But I'll have a chance to see him because Lilia's his choreographer. Last I heard she helped him train for the grand prix. Yuri's lean figure jumping up in an immaculate quad flashes before my eyes. He was so beautiful, graceful, during the prix. I know for a fact that his agape program improved immensely after he went back to Russia and trained under Lilia Baranovskaya. If she's going to make me look like _that_ , I would gladly give in and even live with her. I'll do anything she tells me if my skating will look like Yuri's.

Upon that realization, I am hopeful, even more so than I was before. This could really up my game. I jam in my cerulean ear buds, and scroll down for a song. I need inspiration. I'm already formulating my newest ideas into my next program. I smile as the beats tap rhythmically in my ears, and the modern yet harmonic melody echoes throughout my head. This one will shock and shatter the ice skating world. And from the pieces, I'll create a better one.

The pause in the constant clack-clack of my roller bag is in time with the gaps in the gray pavement right outside the airport terminal. We landed in St. Petersburg an hour ago, and we swiftly collected our luggage and went through security. I caught my first glimpses of the new city through the airplane window as we soared over the city. The little houses were all dotted with snow, buildings unidentifiable in the blanket of white. Just coming out of the terminal, I thought that it would be all grey and cold, the snow only emphasizing the harsh shadows and sharp edges. How wrong I was.

The snow is glittering; everywhere it touches glimmers at different times from every angle. An opportunity for a rainbow beam to shine back at me any way I turn. I part my lips in awe, sucking in the cool, crisp air. To a normal passerby or tourist, it would seem chilling and unforgiving, but to me it's a comfort. Not so different from the London air in winter. While other places might have people who strive to stay inside, bundled up and away from the cold, St. Petersburg is alive, bustling about no matter the cold. The splashes of color from scarves, coats, and boots accentuate the snowy scene, giving it a subtle beauty beyond what the plain ice does.

Coach Jelena enthusiastically waves, invigorated by the outdoors after a cramped flight of stale air, and hails a cab. Its tires crunch on the icy road as it pulls up and the driver opens the trunk for us. I haul my bags into the back and get into the car while Coach Jelena quickly relays the address to the driver in broken Russian, soon following and crashing into the backseat. We drive quickly, and I catch only glimpses of the sights, colorful spires toppling high into the air, squarish beige colored buildings with skinny windows, and a sense of royalty imbedded within the cream and golden colors of the city. It reminds me a bit of England, in the theme of aristocracy, yet it's a slightly different theme from the grey charcoals with hints of color on the London streets. It's just as lovely, in my eyes.

We turn into a neighborhood of the main road, and I can tell that this isn't the normal residential street. The arches are ever-so-slightly more decorated, the columns more engraved and embellished, even the air is different, tinged with the aroma of fresh mint. The taxi approaches a looming mansion, seeming to blend into the background of regal houses right until you're in front of it. It was different, but barely, with subtle decorations that hint into what's inside.

Twin detailed, grey dragon statues flank the porch; elegant as whom I know resides in there. Their sharp edges and fluid movement captured within the sculpting perfectly matches the immaculate ballet I've seen from videos. The curtains from what I can see are an off-white edged with lace, quite elegant yet practical. I knew that Ms. Baranovskaya had to be wealthy, considering her ground-breaking routines and world-renown choreography after her retirement from the ballet world, but I never imagined something so elegant yet stoic and strict. It's as if the house itself is looking down on me, as I feel the windows and cement statues and sharp edges scrutinizing my weak figure.

Coach Jelena doesn't falter, however, and raps three times on the regal doors. The powerful sound will echo in my ears for days. I grip the handle on my suitcase tightly and stiffen as the door opens to reveal a single butler, clean shaven and as composed as the mansion, his face never betraying his thoughts. I would be surprised at seeing a fashionable, curvaceous French lady accompanied by a timid little girl, but I am not so immersed in the ballet world. That kind of emotionless elegance is reserved for those who have known much greater pains than I.

"Well, _bonjour_ Dimitri, how is Lilia? Is she here or out shopping? I assume you were informed of our arrival, no?" Coach talks with her usual French accent and stylish nonchalance, something that I will never really master. I just stand silently there; most of the time I do.

"Hello Mademoiselle Allaire. Mrs. Baranovskaya is here indeed, and I have been informed of your stay. Your rooms are already prepared." Mademoiselle Allaire. What flair her name holds. Sometimes I wish I could feel as beautiful as Coach Jelena's name sounds. Jelena Allaire.

Dimitri the Butler opens the door wider, enough for us to come in. I dip my head slightly in his direction as I cross the threshold.

"Natasha Edwards." I say softly, as quiet as a mouse. I nearly wince at how timid my voice sounds; the only time I'm not so shy is on the ice. Or it could be because the house is so daunting.

He nods at me in return. "Dimitri Sokolov. A pleasure. I've heard much about your accomplishment. Congratulations on the Prix." His Russian tone bleeds through his voice, making it huskier. I flush red and can only muster a smile. It really isn't a big deal. The Prix really only gives you the privilege to compete at Worlds and Four Continents, a way to size up your competition.

My steps echo through the halls in time with Coach Jelena's, Dimitri leading us towards our rooms, I think. I'm so focused on admiring the high ceilings and not tripping over my own feet, I don't even realize someone else coming from the opposite way. We turn the corner, and I feel someone else's eyes on me.

I turn, looking for a split second, and I find pools of blue green staring at shock right back at me. All those Instagram photos I liked, the media interviews I watched, and the night of the Prix banquet I have been staring right back at those beautiful eyes.

 _"Yuri."_ I breathe.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hi." I manage. He looks partly shocked, but I don't think the full breadth of the situation has hit him yet. Coach Jelena turns back and sees us.

"Eh? Yuri? It's good to see you. Still living with Lilia, I see? Tasha's staying here for awhile, Lilia's doing a favor for me by putting her through a training regimen to work on endurance and technique." I stay quiet, not sure what to say. I mean, I forgot to tell Yuri I was coming, even though I really should have.

He seems to regain his composure as Coach Jelena explains, and I notice what he's wearing. It's late afternoon, and he's shrugged on his Team Russia jacket. He's still in training pants and off one shoulder is a black bag and in the hands of the other side are his skates. Their smooth pristine blades glint back at me, shining from the flecks of melting ice on them. His blonde hairs are stuck to his forehead and the base of his neck, decorated with drying sweat. He must have just come back from the ice rink.

"Oh. Okay. Lilia's in the tea room, going over tracks. You can put your things down first." He speaks, clearly surprised but not upset. He catches my gaze and greets me with an unreadable expression. I stare back in the same manner, although I don't know what he's trying to get at. Finally, he breaks eye contact and goes past me down the hallway, not looking back even though my violet irises follow him.

I continue to follow Dimitri and Coach Jelena after awhile, but I can't help but feel weird. Yuri had a rather awkward reaction, I guess, and I just can't put my finger on it. Something's up.

"Here are your rooms." Dimitri drops us off at two majestic bedrooms adjacent to each other. I take in the navy sheets, quaint pine-smelling dresser, and wooden ballet bar. The walls are plain grey and everything seems devoid and icy, but I wasn't expecting anything more than that. Setting my suitcase down, my feet subliminally walk me over to the bar, my fingertips running over the sanded surface. Taking a sweeping gaze around the room again, I can just imagine the faded images of my skates hanging on a peg, my skater idol pinups, and my closet full of costumes superimposed upon the hollow furniture. Sighing, I blink and the reminisces of home fade away. I guess I can live here for awhile. I've made bigger sacrifices for skating.

Forever spaced two paces behind, I follow Coach Jelena through the large mansion to the tea room. She makes small talk with me, commenting on the elegance of the house and such.

"You know, la petite amie, it's nice to get some space every once in awhile. London's nice, but it's so cramped! All the buildings shoved up against one another, and with the grey sky!" Coach exclaims. I think of London's apartments, and concur that they do sometimes seem to push and shove against one another as if they're people trying to squeeze through a doorway together. But the skies aren't always grey; they can be crystal blue too, with the sun's rays bringing green life wherever they touch.

We weave through the long hallways together, Coach Jelena eventually asking me to walk in pace with her and not behind, and we end up in the tea room. It is a mystery to me how Coach knows the house by heart apparently, but she's probably been here a few times. Lo and behold, sitting poised immaculately with a ramrod straight back and not-a-hair-out of place bun, was Lilia Baranovskaya.

She gracefully clicks a manicured fingernail on her iPad to pause a spiel of violins and flutes in harmony. Lifting her other hand, she brings a white china tea cup to her lips and takes an elegant sip before turning to us and scrutinizing our presence with a makeup encrusted mask and a perfectly arched eyebrow. I bristle and freeze, not sure what to do or say. I just feel trapped under her forbidding gaze, like pressure's building up upon me, burying me deep. And for the first time since I agreed to this, I'm scared, scared of not matching up to this standard, scared of not being enough for _her._

"Bonjour, Lilia! It's good to see you again! Comment ça va?" Coach Jelena saves me by bursting out her usual pleasantries and affable nature. I think I'm still frozen, but I start to recover. I can't make that bad of an impression.

"I'm fine, Jelena. It is nice to see you to. What have you brought me to work on today?" Lilia's tone is brisk and demanding, only letting a little fondness bleed into her voice when she greets Coach Jelena. However, she's already going right to the point, swiveling her gaze to me and looking over me a few times.

"Ah, this is my pride and joy, Tasha. She's a little shy but warms up quick once you get to know her. I need you to help her a bit with stamina, and jump technique if you can get to it." Jelena says this all nonchalantly, pushing me forward a bit.

"What's her real talent? Can she even do anything? Even if she's good enough to win the prix, we have a lot of work to do." Lilia's sharp tone dampens me, making me bite my lip. Her Russian accent bleeds heavily into it, striking me down before I even have the chance to speak.

"I'm good at step sequences. I can do really complicated ones, and I'm flexible too. That's what wins the prix. If you can help me make the jumps, that's what wins Worlds and Four Continents." I look her in the eye and don't break my stare. I need to assert what I want. She won't take me any other way.

Lilia holds my gaze strongly with her condescending eyes, and I see her working it out in her head. I'm here to win. She knows that.

"Fine. We go now. I want to see that step sequence." She stands for the first time, her height letting her look down on me even more. Her severe bun makes her look taller, not to mention the heeled boots. Shrugging on a puffy ochre coat with a furry collar, she sends me away to fetch my skates. I hurry out, not wanting to disappoint.

Ten minutes later, we are out the door and into the shimmering winter, headed toward the rink a few blocks away. We walk briskly, my worn skates thrown over my shoulder and hanging by their laces, the once snow-white shoes reduced to a greyish-beige hue. My skates are as battered and tired as hell, but they are well loved.

Turning the corner, my breath hitches in my throat as the rink comes into view.

Wow.

It is palatial itself, with arched glass skylights and dark, regal steps. The doors are polished to a shine and are clear, revealing the state-of-the-art ice rink within. Taking in the sight, I smile and my eyes light up in happiness as I realize that this is where I'll be training.

Smirking, I walk up the steps in time with the coaches, remembering my home rink in London. It's probably three times smaller and not nearly as nice as this one. The glass windows have a shimmering reflection from the ice and reveal a beautiful light within the rink.

The glistening shine of the ice is one of the reasons I love skating so much. I could make a whole list. I love the picture perfect lighting on an ice rink, I love the vibrations and undulating acoustics of the large space. I love the sweat and aching of my muscles, as much as it hurts, because I know that without pain I don't know if I'm feeling at all. But most of all, I love the skating, the clack of my blades on the ice just right, the intricate step sequences, and the perfect spins.

But above all, skating makes me feel strong, powerful, in control of my life and emotions. Not like the broken glass doll of a girl who shattered when her parents left her. Not like the weakling who struggled to get through every practice, every spin and jump. Skating is my solace. It's what raises me up above all and lets me be stronger than what I thought I was. I love to skate, to feel graceful and full of life. I run these thoughts over and over in my mind to alleviate some of my nervousness and regain if only a little confidence before performing for Lilia Baranovskaya.

We enter the ice rink, letting the cool air blast over us. It doesn't really make a difference because of Russia's wintertime weather, but I already feel as if I'm in a whole new world. We quickly check in, merely strolling by the counter as Lilia doesn't even bother to stop as she waves daintily at the counter. As soon as we go in, I can't help but grin and have a hard time keeping it off my face. I'm hit with a mix of excitement and utter fear, and don't know how to control it.

Lilia tells me that I have fifteen minutes to warm up, and I walk briskly to the ladies locker room, changing into leggings and a black t-shirt. Tugging on my fingerless gloves, I emerge from the changing stalls with my skates swinging over my shoulder. I quickly set them down and stretch my legs, using the ballet bar along the wall. I make it fast, attempting to wake up my sleepy muscles. I shrug off my navy jacket as I finish stretching as quickly as I can, knowing that I'll be warm soon. The cool air dances along my skin, embracing me like a long lost friend.

Perching tentatively on the nearest bench, my already numb fingers scramble to lace up my worn skates, tripping over themselves and displaying my nervousness. Taking off my plastic-y guards, I run a finger down the cool metal in nostalgia, reminiscing all of the training and hard work we had put in together. I stand up tall on my immaculately laced skates, and approach the entrance to the large rink.

I fleetingly glance at Coach Jelena and Lilia, and with a approving nod from Coach Jelena, I step onto the ice and undergo a transformation. I gulp down the cool air like I've been holding my breath the whole way here, trapped underwater with my sight and vision muffled and disoriented. Now it's like I've come up for air, and everything is crystal clear and sharp, my senses heightening and warming up. The coldness courses through my body, shocking my systems and turning me on, adrenaline pumping in my veins. My muscles prepare for a performance after the long hours of the plane, loosening for flexibility and tensing for strength. I glide gracefully across the slick ice, skating a lap around the rink and relishing in the feel of my blades against the smooth surface making a swish swish sound.

Skating around other skaters, I evade eye contact and shy away from inquisitive stares. It's not that I'm particularly shy, in fact it's the opposite, but I'm merely scared. I'm afraid that they'll clearly see I'm not from around here, terrified that they'll think that I don't deserve to be here. Every time another Russian skater shoots a look I tense up then try to shake it off. I have always wanted to be part of that elite group of skaters, longed to be part of those that trained day in and day out, emerged victorious, draped in greatness.

"What would you like me to skate?" I ask, pulling sharply from my hair tie and letting down my swinging chocolate locks. I wrestle the strands into place, already tugging unmercifully and twisting them into an immaculate bun. No one really thinks of this if you aren't a skater, but the hair gets in my face all the time when I let it down. I will not let it distract me.

"Perform the first step sequence of the short program you did at the Prix." Lilia is simple and concise; her expression never wavers. Her sculpted and contoured face is as hard as stone, sharp cheekbones painted to perfection. I steal one glance at Coach Jelena, my violet irises flickering briefly, and her reaction is no different.

I nod curtly and swallow, moving to position myself with enough ice to skate. The sequence is mediocre; not the most intense nor daring moves I've ever done, but what it lacks in extremeness it makes up in stamina. There were few places where I had to be immaculate, but the moves were taxing on my toothpick arms and legs.

Coach Jelena brings up a compact stereo, plugging it into her rose-colored phone. With a nod, she glances up at me, cracking a reassuring smile. I close my eyes for a moment, sucking in the cool air, and breathe out, revealing my violet eyes again. I'm ready.

The music starts with a trill of flutes followed by subtle undertones by a cohort of violins. I love that the melody is always familiar to my ears and heart. I make a wide circle, skating nearly soundlessly.

I move flawlessly, my muscles now pulled taut and my back ramrod straight. I glide and turn sharply on my blades, swaying my arms around me. My body moves in tandem with the music, controlled by its commanding notes. The melody gives me a shot of adrenaline as I lean in time with the harmony, rotating my hips and poising my arms.

My nervousness from before is stamped out, a dangerous spark snuffed before it could catch flame. Skating a well known piece gives me comfort and confidence accompanied with a surge of power and energy. Rotating and twirling, I dance upon the ice, ignoring the burning starting in my muscles.

What, just because I'm an international skater means I don't hurt? That's bull. It hurts every time I attempt a complicated step sequence. The soreness sinks in from days before and fatigue sinks its fangs in faster than you can blink.

But your ability to go on and skate as long as possible without pain isn't what determines a great skater. Your ability to take immense pain, to tolerate the screaming in your thighs and triceps, is what carves out a great skater. The best figure-skaters never complain. The best figure-skaters strive for perfection. The best figure-skaters will throw away themselves, will throw away every flawed version of themselves, until they form a perfect one.

I clench my teeth at the intense, acidic burning at my flexing muscles. I'm usually not so weak, but I had very little time to warm up. My body was just beginning to wake up from a deep lulling sleep, and had a bucket of ice cold water dumped over it. Yeah, that tends to burn a bit.

I might be dying inside, but the skater is to never let anyone know. In a way, skaters are actors. They dance gracefully across the slick ice, eyes alight with passion, bodies possessed by music. They put up a mask, their toned figures always perfectly poised, not showing any hint of fatigue and making every movement look graceful and effortless. Their faces betray no thoughts of tiring; each expression is merely one of indifference or severe concentration.

Yes, skaters act all the time. It may look as if we have hardly broken a sweat from the bleachers, when in reality we are drenched and on the verge of collapsing. But that's just who we are. The true test is how well I can endure pain to only display beauty and grace.

I only thought this as the last seconds of my step sequence trickled by, my body starting to get used to the harsh toll the extreme movements had on me. I put my will power into finishing strong, accentuating every move and trying to skate even more beautifully than I started out.

My swift feet make satisfying grinding against the ice, blades scraping off glittering bits. I breathe in, expanding my lungs and trying to get oxygen to my taut muscles. The music sings with a symphony of instruments, all coming together to command my body, pulling the strings of a puppet with the trill of a piccolo and a deep, sensual notes of a bass.

The whole step sequence is only a portion of my program, but I still feel that I have to really push myself. The less I have to skate, the less time I have for sloppiness. Performing an outstanding thirty seconds is harder than skating a mediocre complete program. It's all about capturing perfection in a fraction of the time you're usually allotted.

The graceful movements of my arms poised at my shoulder length as I skate on one leg finishes the portion, as I go into a triple salchow afterwards followed by a spin. Coach Jelena stops the music abruptly as I gently let go of my stance, suddenly missing the beautiful notes that distract me from fear and anxiety. I turn towards Lilia and Coach Jelena, breathing slightly harder with my heart rate ramping up to an elevated state. I'm not sweating yet, but if I performed my whole program I would be.

Lilia pins me with her gaze, emerald irises roving over my figure, observing me. My breathing becomes shakier as some of the burning finally reaches my pain sensors in my cramped lower back and hamstrings. That is the best I can do right now. I can only desperately stay transfixed on her chiseled face, frantically searching for any sign of approval. If I could not impress her, I could not impress anyone.

 _Please._

" _Yest' potentsial."_ Lilia's begrudging tone echoes in the rink, and I let a grin burst over my face. I felt warm like sunshine, even though it was chilly to the bone where I was standing.

 _"Spasibo!"_ I cry out, in somewhat terrible Russian. I immediately bow low in deep respect out of habit, murmuring _arigato_. Smiling, I realize how lucky I was. All the way here I was in a haze, numb and not quite with everything, not realizing the once-in-a-lifetime chance I was receiving, not praying to my parents and thanking them for my luck. I put all my concentration into the most respect I had in my bow.I hold the solemn position on the rink for three more seconds before standing straight up again, cracking a smile.

"Oi, but don't think I'll go easy on you, you're going to train five times harder than you've ever trained in your life!"

* * *

 **Hi guys! Sorry, I haven't updated in like months, I've been partly busy, and partly waiting for the right inspiration. Thanks so much if you're still with me! (If you're not, that's ok I understand :/)**


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